Drawing is faster, and leaves less room for lies.

His shoulders hunched forward. Frantic pencil marks marred the ivory sheet with a relentless absence of remorse. Jasper found when his mastery command of the English language failed to properly express his emotions, drawing was the most honest of the two choices. Deceptions were hard to transfer to unwritten scripts.

Jasper's thoughts were never idle.

The pencil urgently scrawled an angle here.
A curve there.
An impulsive line.
A rebel mark.
Slash.
Scratch.
Shade it in.
Draw it out.
Extract the essence.
Contrast the light.
Show her face. Her pert mouth, opened. The hesitant eyes.
Jasper's sweater; she had to be wearing his sweater.
For comfort? To savor the nostalgia of the beginning? For strength?
Too big.
It must engulf her entirely.
The hair should be dark. Apply more pressure with the pencil.
Inside?
No.
Outside.
Alice loved the outdoors.
Should he draw himself in the picture?
No.
She didn't need him.
Yet...
she wanted him.
Should he?
Still no.
He wanted to peer at perfection alone.
Scratch.
...
Slash. Darker. Make the shadows prominent.
Even darker.
Don't erase your imperfections.
She's perfect this way.
Don't erase her.
She is your sole muse of the flawless.


Done.

If at all possible, Jasper slumped even more with the depleted energy. He knew how Picasso and Rafael must have felt after vigoriously creating unprecedented masterpieces. How long had he sat here under the faithless oak tree, attempting the drawing of his wife?

Seconds?
Hours?
Minutes?
Years.

Plainly it took years to correctly express one's emotions artistically. Jasper fluidly took a stance above his makeshift studio, the paper cradled with gentle precision against his narrow chest.

Time to find his muse.

As he languidly started back toward the house, Jasper let the small smile of contentment flood over his taunt mouth. He had not known Alice very long, the Cullen family even less, but he knew what the difference between a house and a home was.

And he was heading home. That's where she'd be. Hopefully knee deep in a pile of newly acquired products a fashionista required to appease her shopping appetites- he enjoyed savoring the afterglow she radiated when she went on a spree.

How long have I known her?

Years?
Minutes?
Hours?
Seconds.

Yes, merely seconds. Alice never ceased to astound him with a new facet to her jeweled existence- how could he say he knew her at all?

He entered the front door sedately. Jasper slung a look at the stairs to make sure she wasn't racing down at the entering sounds he made. His shoulders relaxed just a bit when he saw it was deserted- he had the time to finish the drawing.

Now he knew what to say. He found the words.

Making his way to the library, Jasper sketched mentally a rough outline of what he was to write on the back of the paper he still held. It came together quicker than he had originally thought, yet he couldn't regret that.

He sat in a cushioned chair and finished the anniversary gift.

Alice.

You’ve worked your magic on me and I’ve been worked over well; great verbal sparring, wit-whipped, smoothed, shaken, caressed. Loved. I am, and I can’t get much more simple than this, afraid of you. And what you do to me.

However, we mutually compel mutual attraction. Does that make sense to you? How do I cope with that? I am forever attracted to you, body and mind, inside, outside, with and without. I believe I am more attracted by you than anyone else I’ve met or hope to meet (Maria... with her it was all about lust and the eternal struggle for dominance). But then again, I’m suicidal, at least philosophically and emotionally. And although I try to resist it, I’m slightly crisis-oriented- I need you to need me even if the world has fallen. Especially then.

And certainly I don’t know you. I’ll give you that very easily. I don’t know you. I only know things about you, the color of your raven locks, the shape of your shoulders when you shake with laughter, the pools of brazenly kissed-sunset eyes; very seductive. I know temperament. I know some of your expressions. I have a collection of words written by you over various stages of our relationship. Articles of clothing you spend a fortune on for me without my consent. You share a few dreams. You hold my hand. You use too many adjectives when you're excited. And you reprimand me when I chose to be less than forthcoming with my verbalization.

But I don’t know anything about who, exactly, you are, in fact. Which disqualifies me as a participant in many areas of your life, not the least of which is professional counsel. But I’m disqualified in a lot of things—life, the pursuit of happiness, wisdom, intellect, culture, politics. In other words, must I know you?

Yes. I must know, touch, see, feel, inspect every living aspect you'll allow. Your very essence would not begin to appease my hunger to know you. The emotions that free fall off your very soul compel like no other man could know.

My Little Monster, let me know all of you.

-Jas

His handwriting was curling and gracefully placed, if a little on the small side to fit. He dropped the pencil and went off to give his love letter drawing to his wife.


(Not for any of my male family members. For once I'd like to show Alice that I'm not a bumbling fool like you lot.)